No Pity for Those Dead
by akisura12
Summary: Sherrinford Watson is one plane ride away from autonomy, invisibility, and the death of Sherlock Holmes. But all he can think about is John.


Title: No Pity for Those Dead

Author: Akisura12

Summary: Sherrinford Watson is one plane ride away from autonomy, invisibility, and the death of Sherlock Holmes. But all he can think about is John. Extremely light S/J. Songfic of Glen Hansard's "Falling Slowly."

Disclaimer: Sherlock, the television series in which I am writing from, is in no way mine or affiliated with me. Sherlock is property of the BBC, and Sherlock Holmes is the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no money by writing this piece, it is solely for enjoyment.

_I don't know you, but I want you_

_All the more for that._

_Words fall through me and always fool me_

_And I can't react._

"Mr. Sherrinford Watson?"

Sherlock looks up at the flight attendant with his now very bright blue eyes and smiles, a fake but incredibly convincing smile. For a moment he is confused, because the woman is looking at him, not… But that confusion only lasts about .16 seconds, too short for even him to notice the slight panic when the use of his… his _name_ arises. Sherrinford Timothy Watson.

"Yes, that's me ma'am. Is there anything the matter?"

The woman shakes her head. "No, nothing the matter sir. I was just wondering if you'd like a drink?"

"The Sherry, please," he says, with his voice just a few tones higher than its natural one. Sherlock has never really enjoyed sherry, but it is the cheapest wine that he is willing to tolerate. He has money, yes, but not much. He must keep autonomous. Even to his family, meaning that his large allowance he is given from his mother every year will discontinue. He must save up. He's told… He said that he was going to buy fourteen new refrigerators for experimentation as an excuse for the large sum of money he had recently taken out of his banking account.

The woman nods, "Yes of course sir," and goes to get him a glass of the undoubtedly watered down and a cheap, knock off version of the beverage he already does not enjoy. But he needs alcohol, and he needs it now. Sherlock rarely gets drunk, but right now is one of those times in which he will allow himself to become utterly smashed.

_And games that never amount_

_To more than they're meant_

_Will play themselves out_

It was only two weeks ago, that Sherlock pulled John out of the Thames, drowned and still and all too cold. Sherlock can't stand the thought, of how much John looked like one of the corpses from Bart's morgue. He is insensitive to death, he knows this, but the thought of _John_ being dead sends an uncomfortable feeling down his spine that is unlike any other he has even experienced.

Moriarty is dangerous, Sherlock knows this. He's always known this. Ever since the day he kidnapped John and stuffed his flat mate's winter coat full of semtex, he hasn't felt safe. Well, truthfully, Sherlock's never exactly been one for… security. But this is different. The inability to be able to sleep not because the thoughts and the boredom won't leave him alone, but out of the _fear_. The fear for another person's life. For _John's _life. It's a bit of the normality that Sherlock sometimes craves in his personality, but this is unbearable! He's not sure how people manage to care about so many people, strangers even, and not destroy themselves in the process.

The game, this twisted game that Sherlock's wrapped up in, is not fun anymore. It stopped being fun when Moriarty brought John into this. Sherlock was delighted by the cases, yes, and he is fairly sure John was too. But everything came crashing down like the water that Sherlock he is sure everyone is convinced that he has fallen into, because John simply cannot be a piece in Moriarty's little game. Sherlock won't allow it.

_Take this sinking boat and point it home,_

_We've still got time._

_Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice,_

_You've made it known._

"Your Sherry, Mr. Watson," the attendant's voice interrupts his thoughts, and for a second time, he thinks that she is talking to John, not him. Sherlock has avoided thinking about why he took John's last name as his own, but it is hard not to. He wanted - needed - something to keep John with him. To remind him that there is someone out there who, at least at one point, loved him. Sherrinford is the name of his twin brother who died shortly after birth, and Timothy was the name of his first client. Sherlock never thought he was one to pair sentiment with words, but perhaps he is.

"Thank you," he says politely and smiles pleasantly at the woman. She nods, smiles back. So simple. So… _predictable_. John is not predictable. That is why he is not dull.

"Yes sir, anything you need please call," she answers before sauntering away. The way she holds herself indicates that's she's recently gotten out of a rough path in her life, obviously changed her name and erased her identity as a table dancer in New York. She's been shagging the pilot or first officer for days now, possibly both, but not at the same time. She'd be flustered if it were brought to her attention, but not ashamed. All so _predictable_.

For a moment, Sherlock thinks that perhaps it is not too late. It has been a mere twenty-six hours since John found his note on the rock at the falls. If he returns, Sherlock has no doubt that John will be angry – there will be tears and smashing things for sure – but Sherlock knows that John would forgive him. But longer… however long he's planning to stay away; he doesn't know how long it will take for John to simply give up on him.

John is a hopeful man, and he is also a skeptical one. But he faces up to facts quickly. He will refuse to believe in Sherlock's death for only about sixteen hours, before he admits it to himself. The funeral will be organized by John, because though John doesn't know it yet, Sherlock changed his will yesterday in order for everything to be handled by John in the case of his death (though he arranged for said records to indicate that he changed it many months ago, as not to seem suspicious).

Many people will come with the funeral, but few will actually mourn his death. His past clients are grateful to him and will be sorrowful, but they will not mourn for any extended amount of time; he was important to them, but not connected. Most of the police officers at Scotland Yard will just be in shock that he's finally died, not sure what to do next. Sally will cry, (lately the two have been getting on a bit better) and Molly definitely will (despite getting over her schoolgirl crush over him, she still does have non-romantic feelings for him), and Lestrade will stay strong (like he always does) and be there for John (like he was there for Sherlock, so many years ago). Mycroft will take work off for a day to moan, and then he will be fine. They'll all be fine.

They will not all be fine if he comes back. Rather, if he does not leave. Moriarty did not threaten him, he threatened _John._ It was low and cruel and a trap, but it worked. It had to, because Sherlock knows that Moriarty had no problems ordering someone to shoot John in the head. And after that, Lestrade, Mycroft, Stanford… Everyone will be the antithesis of fine if Sherlock stays. And so he can't.

_Falling slow, eyes that know me,_

_And I can't go back._

_The moods that take me and erase me,_

_And I'm painted black._

Sherlock feels sick to his stomach. He drinks the sherry and asks for a bit more. They give it to him. It doesn't help. The alcohol was supposed to take away everything, but it's not. Sherlock knows he shouldn't be wasting his precious money away on cheap drink, but something tells him he's allowed to. That even if he can't get drunk, it's better to try to, isn't it?

He ambles out of his seat and makes his way to the back of the plane. Opening the door to the small bathroom, he heaves once, twice, before throwing up the liquor into the toilet. He tells himself it's because he's gone so long without drinking that he can no longer hold his drink very well. He knows that's not true.

A clambers out of the small box, pale and a bit shakier than he'd like, or would ever admit, and collapses back into his seat. He's head is _pounding_. The last time he felt this ill John nursed him, nannied him, making sure that he stayed on the couch long enough to watch at least five hours of crap telly at a time and that he was always hydrated. John isn't here this time.

Sherlock knows fair well that he's not actually ill, that it's all in his mind; that he is nervous, and that is all. He has no fever, doesn't ache, he is simply nervous. He _hates_ being nervous.

'_John could make this better,_' he allows himself a somber thought, but it's no use. He has left John of his own accord, as both leaving and staying would result the same: he would have to be parted from John. The difference between the options was that one resulted in John being dead. Leaving was the better option of course, because John is still very much alive due to his leaving. At least, he has a beating heart. And that's enough, isn't it?

_Well, you have suffered enough_

_And warred with yourself,_

_It's time that you won._

It's not fair. None of this is fair. Sherlock can't even begin to say when it stopped being fun and just became tiresome, because it was gradual. The constant cases and the continuously being in danger have always struck a chord with him, and yet… John was shot. _His John_ was shot. It was obviously meant as a warning, as the wound was far from fatal. Moriarty had been sure of that. Many of Sherlock's homeless network had witnessed John being shot on the bridge, falling into the water, and by now they all knew that if any of them ever had something important to tell Sherlock about John, they'd get a hearty reward. And so Sherlock was obviously let to find John before the army doctor died. But in the case that he _had_ died, Sherlock knows Moriarty wouldn't have cared.

Sherlock is not willing to risk this. He is willing to take many risks. Faking his own death, purposely running into the battlefield, hurting other people? That can all be fine. But risking John's life is _not_ fine. It is one of the few things on his not fine list that John has not verified. But Sherlock, of his own accord, knows it is rightfully there.

_Take this sinking boat and point it home,_

_We've still got time._

_Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice_

_You've made it known._

"Sir? Sir are you quite alright? You look pale." It's the flight attendant again. So insistent, so _boring_. He wants to tell her what he's deduced of her, rip her personality to shreds, because it would get her to leave him alone. But no, Sherrinford Timothy Holmes is a polite, kind young gentleman who would never yell at a lady so cruelly like that. So all Sherlock does is wave the lady off, mumbling something about having a headache is all.

Sherlock spent a very long time creating Sherrinford. The first name was easy; it was the name that his twin brother who died shortly after birth was to have. However the last name was the trick. Sherlock knows that John might not be pleased to have Sherlock changed his name to Watson, as it would imply that they were married, but he wants something to remember John by. Needs something, because John… John is special. He deserves special things, and Sherlock is special. So Sherlock took his name. Timothy was the last name of his very first client as a consulting detective.

The personality was mind numbing. It was so easy to create such a simple man. Went to Cambridge (Sherlock has the certificates and records to prove it), straight B student, very polite. Never married and childless. Has lived in the outskirts London all of his life. There is proof of everything, and Sherlock knows everything _about_ Sherrinford. And it is dull. Being away from John is already dull. When did John's presence, not the cause of death, become the more interesting factor of his cases?

_Falling slowly, sing your melody,_

_I'll sing it along._

Sherlock knows that he couldn't have told John his plan. If he'd told John to act as if he'd died, he knows John could have gone along with it. Would've disapproved, but tried his best to act as if he had just lost his best friend. He would fail.

There is no way that John could act accurately convincingly unless he truly believed that Sherlock was dead. It tears Sherlock apart, knowing this, but it is a fact. They both respect fact. Why does this have to be any different?

It will be hard, he knows. Hiding from Mycroft and changing his identity so completely and never slipping… He knows he can't hide from Mummy. She will find out, no doubt about it, but she will not give away his cover. She will understand. Or at least he hopes she does. God, please let her understand.

John will not understand. He will never understand. Even if Sherlock is able to return to John, John will never fully forgive him, he knows. John is honest, and understanding and he will try to find a way to let all of this make sense, but he will find none in the end. He will never know.

Sherlock knows that he was horrible. He told John he loved him without thinking, when John woke up for that minute after Sherlock had fished him out of the Thames. Somehow John remembers it though, because as soon as he woke up in the hospital, he kissed Sherlock.

Something could have started. Something wonderful. Something lost.

_I paid the cost to late,_

_Now you've gone._

The plane is landing now. Sherlock can see out the window how the ground is slowly getting closer and closer to them. Tibet. He had himself flown to Tibet. There he will shave his head and live with the monks until he finds the best approach to finishing off Moriarty and his henchmen. It will take time. Time that pains Sherlock to think about.

John will never forgive him.

Sherlock will never know what they could have had.

John will never know just _how_ much Sherlock loved him.

All the days that Sherlock will sit in a monastery and John in the flat, they could've spent together. The days could have been will never be; they are lost.

Sherlock steps off of the plane.

There is no going back.

A/N: Thanks for reading! I know in canon Moriarty died in the fall, but for plot's sake I decided that he was not actually present when Sherlock pretended to perish in the falls, the letter Sherlock wrote to John just said he was. I hope you enjoyed and reviews are wonderful!


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